


Words in my Mouth

by Neffectual



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Child Neglect, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Poetry, Rimming, Slam Poetry, Slut Shaming, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5042548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Seth and Roman meet at a poetry gathering. They're all a little nervous, a little sweaty, and it brings them together, through their tangled pasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the start of an ambrolleigns poetry au, where the boys meet each other and discover that it's not just words and bad experiences they have in common.
> 
> This first chapter is a placeholder until I know how I want to plot this out.

He’s the shabby guy at the back of the room, two jackets on and not taking them off, even though he’s sweating through them. His hands move, restless, always pulling at fraying threads, tugging at his sleeves, keeping his shoulders hunched. He looks shifty, bruised face, the way he clicks his jaw and his blue eyes dart wildly, and a few of the women have already asked the guys on the door to keep an eye on him, because he looks like the kind of guy who never stops spoiling for a fight. They don’t say drunk, they don’t say junkie, but he hears all of it anyway, used to reading between the lines. This isn’t his place, not the space for a high school dropout who was never good at reading but who has to write to keep all the feelings he has from spilling out.

Dean writes slam poetry which echoes off the walls, which sets the world aflame and all anyone can think is how they underestimated him, how they thought he’d be the guy bothering women, the guy sneering through the rape poems about how there are good guys out there, but he brought his own tissues and his voice breaks when he says the word ‘mom’. He doesn’t drink beer like some of the other guys, sticking to tap water, fingernails picking at the underside of the bar and he flinches whenever people get too close, to congratulate him. He doesn’t say it’s warm, it’s safe, he doesn’t have to go home to where her hands are still all over him and where the new bruises start to form. Here, he’s not alone, for the first time in his life.

 

The guy in the slouchy beanie looks like the usual hipster douchebag, there to pick up chicks or make a statement, the kind who carries his overly-fancy coffee order in a reusable cup, who drinks water when there’s applause and adjusts his glasses like he thinks it makes him pretty. He looks like the typical try hard looking like he didn’t try hard, and there are some of the girls who go to him, and giggle when they sit close to him, but he doesn’t speak to anyone, doesn’t say a word until he’s up on stage and his voice sounds wrong, somehow, more brash than they’d expected as he tugs nervously at the bleached section of dark, curly hair.

Seth’s brought three notebooks with him, full to the brim with cursive script he squints at from behind his glasses, barely able to read his own smudged ink where too many nights were spent in tears - but he doesn’t read those poems, doesn’t stand in a room of strangers and call out to roots which never touched ground, left to wither, thirsty, in the air. Instead, he thinks of all the girls in English class who laughed at him when his stumbling words asked them out, and the way the only boy he ever loved punched him in the face when he tried the same. The poems he reads, instead, are lascivious tongue curls of rapture about his ex-boyfriend’s dick, because it’s easier than remembering how the hands which loved to open him up so gently were the ones that also held him down.

 

The guy who works the door is an enigma to a lot of them, he looks barely out of his twenties but everyone knows he’s got a little girl, she comes to the kids’ classes sometimes, and draws pictures of her and her daddy, never anyone else. He’s big and broad and people shy away from him, expecting him to be aggressive, but he’s mostly silent, nodding to regulars and frowning at people he thinks are suspicious. When the buffet tables are cleared, he’ll put items wrapped in napkins into his pockets, and everyone pretends they don’t see him leaving with his pockets bulging. He’s good on the door, his size and tattooed arm a good deterrent for anyone, and though they’ve never seen him have to throw a punch, everyone knows, with certainty, that he would if it was needed. When the poets speak, his eyes go glassy, and sometimes a smile will force its way onto his face, or he’ll bite his lip at words of pain, and everyone knows this isn’t just a job for him.

Roman doesn’t write poetry, learned years ago that his words always did more harm than good, but he likes to listen, likes to hear the words of his cousins, talking about gang violence, of an old classmate talking about buying second-hand clothes for her baby, how these people go through all this pain and keep getting stronger, their voices speaking out against a world that says they’re not good enough. When he goes home, he cradles his child and whispers to her sleeping form that he won’t let anything hurt her, that she’ll grow up strong and sturdy, and he’ll fight off anyone who tries to get near her, and he wishes he could find these words at the meetings, to take them to the stage and tell everyone in the room how much it hurts to hold a seven year old and tell her that you love her, but there’s no food tonight. Instead, he accepts the low wage they pay him, carries home as many cakes and pastries as he can, and tries not to let it bother him that he can’t feed the one person he loves most in world.


	2. enough space for your hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth gets to meet the most important person in Roman's life, and learn a little more about Roman and himself in the process.
> 
> (The previous section suggested the boys might be in their late teens - this is going to place them more or less at their real ages, and that's where I'm going to stick.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to Dillon's 'Thirteen Thirtyfive' and chapter title from the same.

It’s a dark night, the rain coming down hard on the roof, and the thunder starting to rumble when Seth arrives, early to his meeting for once, college letting out on time and heading straight over instead of idling around the coffee shop for an hour. When he walks in, he spots the familiar bulk of Roman, crouched down and talking to a small figure he’s barely seen, just one picture in Roman’s wallet and one glimpse of her sleeping in her father’s arms as Roman left one night. The set of Roman’s shoulders looks heavy, tired, hurting, and Seth wants nothing more than to take the weight off that broad expanse of skin and make everything easier for this guy he barely knows, but who he considers a friend. The most they’ve ever said to each other is ‘hi’ at the door and the one time Roman paused before he clasped Seth on the shoulder, waiting for permission, before thanking him sincerely for a poem about stronger sentences for rapists. But either way, everyone here is close to some degree, they all look out for each other, and besides, Seth is the only other person here at the moment.

“Hi, Roman,” he tries, and Roman’s head shoots up, frozen in fear before he works out it’s Seth, and relaxes a little. “Having a little trouble getting a sitter tonight?”

Roman smiles gratefully, the stubborn little face of his daughter poking out from the curtain of her hair, arms folded.

“Yeah, her usual one’s sick, and my mom can’t take her, and I usually let one of the girls here have her, but her husband just got out this week, and – “

He trails off, voice sharp and desperate as a small, nut-brown hand pulls a lock of his hair, gently, but insistently.

“We could go home, daddy,” the little girl tries, and Seth can hear the wobble in her voice as she tries to pull herself together, “I can look after myself.”

Roman gives Seth a look that breaks his heart, this steadfast man who breaks apart fights and keeps the troublemakers out, absolutely haunted by the idea of leaving his daughter alone.

“Jojo, you know why you can’t stay on your own, we’ve been over this.” Roman murmurs, pulling her closer to his body, and she goes so easily, like her daddy is the harbour she’s always known, Seth can see she’s never had any reason to fear him. “I need to stay here and make some money, and you need to be looked after, or – “

His voice breaks on the last word, and Seth’s resolve crumbles, he can’t watch this any longer without wanting to pull them both into his arms, without proffering the dollars he has on him, without offering the handout he knows Roman could never take. Even offering is an insult, he knows this, knows the way Dean’s mouth turns downwards when he brings him a hot coffee, when he tried to gift him an old winter coat to keep him warmer. It’s been a learning curve for Seth, so used to money but still feeling suffocatingly emotionally empty, to realise that giving someone ten dollars can hurt them more than whatever’s caused them to need that money so badly. That charity is about making himself feel good – not helping the person he’s with.

“I wasn’t planning to read more than once tonight,” he hears himself saying, instead of offering anything else, anything stupid, instead of bringing Roman into the circle of his arms and taking him home. “I could scrap that one and sit with her, if that’s okay with you?”

The little girl – Jojo, Seth thinks, filling her name in when he realises Roman’s already used it – eyes him with clear suspicion, and Seth does his best to give her a winning smile. He’s never really been around kids, has vague memories of being one, but worries he’s hitting that age where he’s getting that weird, sanitised view of children that adults get. It's the or that gets him, the way Roman said it, like the threat of someone taking Jojo away is too real, too close, and like it would destroy him entirely - seeing Roman broken by such a tiny word, such a tiny indraw of breath... it doesn't bear thinking about.

“Seth, no, that’s – “ Roman starts, ready to say it’s too much to offer, Seth’s sure, but Jojo catches Seth’s eye and shakes her head vehemently.

“I’ll stay with Seth,” she says, easily, and steps away from Roman to stand near Seth, although he notices she stays far enough away that he couldn’t grab her before she could get back to Roman. “You need to go to work, daddy.”

That feels like a punch to the gut, this little girl willing to go with him, a stranger, because she knows Roman needs the money, knows that part of the reason why he needs the money is her, and Seth remembers Dean telling him that parents often think children don’t see when they change behaviour, or fight, or when something is wrong, but that it’s a lie. Looking into Jojo’s brown eyes, so different but so similar to the cool grey of her father’s, all intelligence and measuring him, Seth thinks Dean must be right. She’s not stupid, and her youth does not make her unable to see what needs to be done, what Roman has to do to keep her safe. Their eyes hold that gaze for a moment, and Seth finds himself nodding, a tiny motion. Her mouth quirks, almost too quick to see, and then it's gone again, and Seth looks at Roman, catches himself looking into the same curious, calm glance.

“There’s the children’s room,” Roman says, nodding slowly, “if you don’t mind missing too much of the action. I’d…. appreciate it if you were there after nine, anyway.”

Seth glances at his watch – he’d get an hour of the gentler, warm up work before the darker work came out, but he’s not sure what the right answer is. And then he realises.

“What do you want to do, Jojo?” he asks.

“Joelle,” she corrects him, and he nods an apology. “I’d rather be in the back room.” Her eyes flit to Roman – he worries less if that’s where she is, can keep his mind on the job, doesn’t look at his daughter and wonder who might hurt her. Seth can read all of it in a second, and he wonders whether he’s become good at reading people, or if this little girl is expressing everything so strongly, willing him to understand.

“We’ll be in the back, then,” Seth says, softly, and watches both of their mouths grin, so alike, smiles opening their faces like tiny suns, like supernovas rising, and he’s breathless with it, how beautiful Roman looks, how young, how his daughter smiles just like him, with all of her heart. “We’ll see you when it’s all done, Roman.”

Roman reaches out a hand, pauses, and at Seth’s nod, puts it on his shoulder.

“If Dean’s here, he can come in,” he says, and something in his face loses that free and easy look he had just seconds before. “I know you’re close.”

“We’re friends,” Seth murmurs, and bids himself not to catch Joelle’s eye, for fear of what he might find there. Instead, he looks steadily at Roman, and lets his volume rise a little. “Just friends.”

“Good friends, then,” Roman’s voice rumbles with something like amusement. “From what I’ve seen.”

Seth’s mind flashes back to a night a week ago, Dean pressing him up against the brickwork, and voice saying something, then backing off, but he was too caught up in Dean’s mouth and hands to check, to see who it was, to stop. He wonders, now, if that was Roman, finishing the building check and finding them there. His cheeks heat.

“We’d show you more,” he hears himself say, low and dark and full of promises, and Roman’s hand is still on his shoulder, like a brand, his fingers digging in for a second before he lets go and moves away.

“Joey, you got your colouring books, right? And your homework? Let’s hope Seth’s better at math than daddy, huh?”

Seth grins at that, watching Roman bend down and lift his little girl up high, spinning her once to her squeals of delight before he sets her back down on his feet.

“Yes, daddy,” she sighs, tone bratty but smile belying it, she’s so focused on Roman, so zeroed in on him, like he’s her whole world, and Seth has to look away. “And maybe if I get my homework done, Seth can help me write a poem.”

He startles at that, looks at her, carefully.

“You want to write?” he asks, and watches her solemn little face nod at him.

“Daddy’s not good with words,” she whispers, like it’s a secret, with a wicked little giggle. “They fight him.”

Roman makes a noise, and when Seth looks at him, his face is pink, and he won’t meet Seth’s eyes. It’s cute, something Seth didn’t think he could ascribe to Roman, but now he can and it just makes him want to spend more time with the bigger man, to get to know him.

The door opening and letting in Nikki, early to set up, makes both of them startle apart, Joelle muffling a tiny sound that could have been a cough, but sounded more like a laugh, and Seth already wouldn’t put that past her.

“Roman, a hand?” Nikki asks, as she lugs a couple of big bags into the room, and Roman pats his daughter once more on the head, before locking eyes with Seth, nodding once, and heading over to help her.

“Well, Miss Joelle,” Seth says, making her giggle, “I believe we’ve an appointment in the children’s room.” He can feel Roman’s hand on his shoulder like a brand the whole way to the back room. It feels like something worth waiting for.


	3. our souls catch us up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Seth takes Dean home with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Susan Enan's 'Bring On The Wonder'. Warnings in notes at the bottom.

The first time Seth takes Dean home with him, he’s nervous, shaking, a little unsteady as he watches Seth unlock the door to a house like Dean’s only dreamed of, a real, honest-to-god yard out front with flowers in it, and a front door that looks like no one’s ever kicked it in. Dean can’t imagine living like this, out in suburbia, can already feel the curtains twitching at that nice young boy across the road bringing home someone like him, but his jackets are good for more than just keeping the cold out.

Seth sends him for a shower, and Dean doesn’t have the strength to argue, a warm, safe space of hot water, with a door that locks and bolts, so no one can get in. He uses the shampoo Seth had pointed out to him, and some spicy-scented body wash that smells like Seth does when he gets close at the community centre. He wants to stay until the water runs out, never thinks that it might, but when he gets out, the towel is warm and plush, and he wraps it around his shoulders like a kid, shaking his hair, the unruly curls flying. He’s thankful for the cushion of steam over the mirror that stops him from seeing himself in this white expanse of tile, so clearly out of place.

Back in the bedroom, his towel tucked around his waist and his hair leaving rivulets down his back and chest, Seth’s stood at the window in the darkness, silhouetted against the dying light, and just that makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat, like he’s seeing something he isn’t allowed. When Seth turns, his face is hurt, tired, nervous, and Dean’s never known what to do with that, never known how to fill a room with something more than the screams and curses he always gets at home, so he just goes to him, stands himself in the circle of Seth’s arms and breathes in the scent of him, all the better for being a day old and not freshly washed.

“Bed?” Seth asks, past what sounds like a lump in his throat, and Dean can only nod, silently, for fear that whatever he says will shatter this fragile peace. “Are you… I need to….”

Seth can’t make the words come out, stuttered sounds until Dean kisses him, softly, gently, like he’s an easily-startled animal, those big bambi eyes and long, slender legs, knock-kneed with panic. What he’s trying to say, Dean works out, is that he can’t – won’t – bottom, and Dean’s almost amused that Seth thought it would be an issue, like Dean isn’t used to being fucked, that he looks like the sort of guy who’d have an issue with that. He’s always shrugged it off so easily when a guy’s brought it up, always said life’s fucked him enough that he’s ready for it, now. But this time, the words don’t want to come, and he knows they’d ruin everything if they did, so he nods, again, rolls onto his belly, ready to assume the position – but Seth stops him.

Between them, they get Dean on his back in the bed, Seth between his spread legs, mouth lapping at Dean’s hole and Dean being thankful he hadn’t argued the shower, because it feels like being broken open and made whole all at once, feels like Seth’s mouth is the only thing tethering him to the real world, like his hands clawing at the sheets are trying to pull him out of some unconscious reverie, and he’ll wake up to find it’s all been a dream. When Seth pulls back, sweating, pink, eyes downcast for all his lips curve into a smile, Dean has to ask.

“Can I – I need to kiss you.”

Seth startles, like they’ve never kissed before, like Dean’s never pressed him up against the grimy brickwork of the community centre and snarled into his mouth, panted hot breath across his neck along with teethmarks, like they haven’t been working their way to this the whole time.

“But… my mouth… I – “

Dean chances it anyway, surging forward and taking his mouth like it’s a conquest, softening as Seth’s nails dig into his arms, making it sweeter, subtler, feeling and loving for once instead of devouring. It feels good, and Dean thinks he could get used to treasuring Seth the way he treats Dean, with kindness and gentleness, and backing off when it’s needed. He thinks he would make a good boyfriend, like this, be good for Seth, be something he needs, but he won’t kid himself that he’s got anything to offer Seth aside from his body and his heart. Anything else he has is stolen, old, borrowed or broken, and what use could someone like Seth have for something like that?

When Seth pushes a finger into him, Dean moans into the sensation, refusing to let his eyes close so he can watch Seth at work, the way his brow furrows and he bites his lip when he concentrates, searching, the way his mouth quirks into a smile when he grazes Dean’s prostate and he makes an unbidden strangled growl of a noise. Seth is beautiful, Dean would have to be blind not to have seen in when he reads his poetry, the way his tongue trips over syllables but always stutters when it gets to a certain name, the way he pushes his glasses up his nose when he’s nervous, or toys with his bleached section of hair when he’s tense. But like this, fully enmeshed in Dean, taking his time, taking slow, shuddery breaths that are almost like sobbing, he’s practically shining with the last of the light, and Dean can hardly breathe for the sight of him.

A second finger feels full, tight, like Dean’s chest is becoming, feels almost like too much for a moment until Seth presses a kiss to his thigh and Dean feels himself relax when he didn’t even know he was tense. He’s glad, suddenly, that they’re doing this face to face, that he isn’t face down in a pillow that smells of Seth’s vanilla conditioner, that he can watch Seth’s reaction to him opening up. His face faintly blossoms with delight, and he leans back down to kiss again at the same spot, before placing a gentle bite there, too. Dean mewls into it, a noise he didn’t know he could make, and reaches for Seth’s shoulders – but stops. He isn’t stupid, he’s seen the way Seth flinches at certain things, he’s heard the poems, heard tonight’s as just an affirmation of everything he already knew, and he’s not about to ruin anything by being careless.

Three fingers feels like he should be begging, mouth a tight line for a moment before the words spill out, before he’s calling Seth beautiful and perfect, and sweet, and everything, everything except that word that had broken Seth’s composure on the stage earlier that night, everything but a word said in anger by a hateful man who never deserved Seth’s glory. Instead, Dean focuses on praise, on pleading, on telling Seth how wonderful he’s being. He carefully doesn’t say anything about what anyone else has done, or if Seth has done this for anyone else, keeps it just the two of them, like there’s no one else in the world, like everything outside of this room has vanished and ceased to exist the second the two of them touched. He watches how Seth’s breathing hitches when he says gorgeous, seeing the smile when he says pretty, watches eyes tear up a little when he says kind, and relishes every reaction, every second of it, as if he might never get another chance.

Having Seth inside him, after what feels like hours, the sun completely set now, is like home – not his home, not a wreck of a building full of screams and violence, but how he’s always felt home should be. It feels safe, he feels whole, he feels like he belongs for the first time in his life, like he’s not an outside, and he watches Seth’s eyes stay carefully open, eyes closed being the victim of too many memories. Slowly, giving Seth enough time to stop him, Dean reaches up, pushes a lock of blonde hair behind one of Seth’s ears, and keeps his hand there, stroking over those soft locks, for as long as he can, before his hand falls back to the bed, his hands tangling in the sheets once more as Seth’s thrusts are erratic, his breath coming in little pants against Dean’s shoulder as his body falls forwards. When Seth comes, Dean mourns the lack of fluids between them, the sense of not being fully claimed, the sense of Seth to use a condom, but only for a second before he follows Seth over, and cradles him to his chest.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise the shakes from Seth aren’t orgasm aftershocks, but tears, that he’s sobbing, bawling in Dean’s arms, and Dean doesn’t have a clue what the right answer to this is, so smooths his hands over sweat-wet hair, trying not to get tangled in Seth’s curls, and whispers soothing little things until Seth’s calmed enough to lift his head. His eyes are dark from crying, red-rimmed, and his nose is red and swollen, lips wet – he’s gorgeous, and Dean can’t help but press a soft kiss to his cheek, Seth scrunching his eyes closed for a second like the touch physically pains him, before leaning in close again.

“It was…” he says, and trails off, Dean’s heart in his throat in case the next word is bad, or Seth’s going to say it was all a mistake. The silence is maddening, but Dean doesn’t hurry him along, just keeps stroking over his hair and back, slow, easy movements designed not to startle.

“It was nothing like with him.” Seth says, at last, and Dean feels something inside of him ache with a longing to hold Seth close to him forever. He squeezes tighter, hopes everything comes in through that motion, all the words he doesn’t have and all the things he doesn’t know how to say. He’s not a miracle worker, and he’s not going to pretend one night with him will make Seth’s life immeasurably better, but fuck if he doesn’t want to try, if he doesn’t want to be here tomorrow and the next day and the next, to be what Seth needs, to be support and home and joy and fingers twined together in the darkness. When Seth pulls out to get rid of the condom, and wipe them both down, there’s a second where Dean thinks he’s going to be asked to leave, but Seth just settles back into his arms easily, like he’s been made to fit there, and Dean stops holding his breath, goes back to tracing aimless patterns along the constellation of Seth’s spine tattoo, and swears silently to himself that he’ll do whatever it takes to deserve the trust Seth has placed in him.

 

The first time Seth takes Dean home with him, he’s just read his first poem out loud about the rape, he’s just said the four letter word that’s most ugly to him in the whole world in front of a room full of strangers, told them all how he was called a slut and left lying in his own tears and come, and he can’t meet Dean’s eyes, can’t look at anyone. His voice breaks on the last line as the tears come, and the applause is muted, sombre, nothing like the howls some people get – but it’s real, it’s honest, it’s his, and even though his vision’s blurry, he doesn’t have to check to see whose hand it is that helps him off the stage, helps him to a chair, helps him sit and passes him his water bottle. He’s not afraid of these hands, doesn’t have to shy away, they’re never done anything to hurt him – and he decides, tonight. Tonight is the night for so many firsts – he’s done the impossible, he’s spoken about it, he’s said the word – that this one, this one, the one he wants… he can have this one, too. The first time Seth takes Dean home with him, he’s certain that he’s doing something good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seth has previously been raped, and the way in which he conducts sex with Dean is fully used to ensure he has power and feels safe in the situation he creates. The whole scene is told from Dean's point of view, with what he does to avoid triggering Seth.


	4. we both matter, don't we?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Dean and Seth fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to and title from 'Running Up That Hill' - the Placebo version, obviously. I'm nothing if not a drama queen.
> 
> Warnings in the notes at the bottom.

The first time they have a fight, Dean looks over at Seth, and Seth can feel everything in that gaze; emptiness, hurt, misery – and Dean looking away feels like a relief, like such intense scrutiny is too much for him to bear. He looks back, anyway, because he didn’t mean to cause a fight, didn’t mean to start anything, but it’s already too late to claw the words back, already too late to say something self-deprecating and laugh it off, and besides, Dean wouldn’t let him. Dean never lets him be self-deprecating, never lets him brush his trauma off as being stupid, never lets him feel worthless or broken or damaged, but the same rule never applies in reverse. Seth could whisper a million things to Dean in the night, and Dean will just shake his head, no – and that’s the end of it.

The fight’s stupid, Seth saying something about how he’s always happy to see Dean, how his heart soars, how his stomach drops, how it’s a brilliant feeling and he wishes he could have more of it, all the time. Dean looks like someone’s pulled the world out from under his feet; sick, a little dizzy, wounded, and Seth doesn’t understand why, but when he goes to soften it, goes to put his arms around Dean, what he gets is a flinch back, and that, that’s enough to keep him still. He’s never wanted to be anything like the monsters that stalk the halls of Dean’s mind, Dean’s present, never wanted to touch without permission because he knows how a lover’s hands feel when they’re no longer wanted.

“I… I’m gonna head home,” Dean says, and with that, Seth’s entire world falls apart.

Home. Home, where Dean’s thirty and still lives with his mother, still lets her live when every poem is another black eye, another cracked rib, the raking eyes of another boyfriend who never touched him but promised a million things with just a look. Every poem is a sob of ‘mom’, a scream of ‘help’, and then Dean goes home to her, and makes sure she takes her medication, and pays her bills, and makes the rent, and acts like he didn’t spent his childhood learning how to live in a war zone. Seth can’t fathom it, can’t understand it, can only compare it to the month he stayed with… him, and how small and awful it makes him feel even now to know he spent that long in a situation that made him sick.

“Home?” Seth questions, wondering, hoping, above everything, that Dean will change his mind, that Dean will say no, that Dean will stay. He doesn’t apologise, doesn’t dare, bites back the words that threaten to spill out, because if Dean’s going home, then he doesn’t deserve an apology, if being here with Seth is so much worse than being there, then Seth has nothing to say to him. He knew he’d fuck up eventually, must do, always does, because he took a loving boyfriend and made him a rapist just by existing, and Dean’s already so hurt. Of course he was just going to make it worse, of course he was just going to gouge out Dean’s humanity and leave him as a bleeding shell.

“It’s none of your business,” Dean says, sharp, brittle, and Seth bites his lip, because he’s not going to cry, not like this, not in front of a Dean who’s so vicious it’s almost unimaginable. This is the Dean who says he’s proud of him when he reads a new poem, when he makes steps with his therapist, this is Dean, who sits next to him in the community centre, and holds his hand when someone else reads something a little close to home, who doesn’t hold his hand when he can’t cope with being touched, but who holds him so gently that Seth can almost forget he’s being caged. When Dean’s with him, he doesn’t feel afraid, but this, this snarling stranger in his house, this is something he wants to back away from, and that feels like he’s swallowed broken glass.

“Right,” he says, instead of everything else, instead of the pleas he’s had for months about Dean moving in with him, instead of offering to sleep on the couch and let Dean have the bed, instead of anything about how he never meant to be worse than her. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Let me stop you, he almost says, and he catches sight of himself in the mirror above the dresser and startles back, because he looks desperate, hungry, like a starving, bleeding animal dragging itself along the ground. He looks desperate, and that scares the hell out of him, makes him fall silent as Dean packs his bag up easily, the few things he’s taken to leaving at Seth’s place deliberately being placed in the bag, and Seth would be scared, he’d be screaming by now, but Dean’s hands are shaking, and he twitches at every ragged breath Seth pulls into his lungs. Seth wants to hate him, wishes he could hate him, but this is love, isn’t it, that twisting ache in his chest that feels like watching Dean pack a bag is watching the world end.

“Don’t – “ he starts, but stops himself when Dean looks up, swallows hard against the rest of the words. He doesn’t have any right to tell Dean what to do, not even any right to ask him to stay, and so he lets his mouth become a thin white line, worrying his lower lip inside his mouth, a habit Dean hates and one Seth will do until he bleeds if he’s left alone to it.

“It’s for the best,” Dean says, and Seth wants to howl at that, shout and scream and rage, because how dare he, how dare he decide what’s best for both of them? This isn’t best for Seth, this pain, this feeling like he can’t draw in enough air, and like he’s going to die the very second Dean walks out of the door. This isn’t best for Dean, going back to a situation he hates and that he writes about all the time, and where no one treats him how he deserves. Then again, Seth thinks bitterly, it’s not like he’s doing such a good job himself, is it? If he was treating Dean properly, he wouldn’t want to leave, he wouldn’t go back home, he wouldn’t prefer home over being here, with Seth.

Something about his desperation must show in his eyes, or Dean can hear his breathing quicken, or something, because he stops packing for a second, takes a deep breath in, and then turns to look at Seth properly, instead of the scared half-glances he’s been throwing at him the whole time.

“Look… just for tonight,” Dean says, but his face says so much more, and Seth doesn’t need this pity, these lies, doesn’t need to be pandered to like a child, but the words he wants to spit out aren’t coming, his usual quick wit stuttering into nothing in the face of such overwhelming hurt.

“Sure,” he agrees, voice thick with something he doesn’t want to identify as tears, for fear they’ll all come spilling out, “just for tonight.”

When Dean leaves, Seth follows him to the door like a lovesick puppy, desperately hoping he’ll change his mind, that he’ll turn around for one last hug, one last kiss, the Seth will be able to convince him back into bed at least, because god knows that’s all Seth’s ever been good for, all anyone’s ever wanted him for. He knows he’s good at that, knows he can make Dean come, knows he’s got good hands and a good body and an eagerness that’s always greeted with enjoyment and then tossed aside with disgust.

The door clicking shut may as well be a slam, but Seth barely hears it, too busy falling to his knees in the hallway and having his first panic attack in months, hands clawing at his chest and throat like he can open himself up and breathe on his own, like he hasn’t eviscerated himself by hurting Dean already, like there’s anything in him but empty sluttishness. He feels himself gag and retch, dinner spilling onto the carpet as the world dizzily sways around him, breath barely there, and hopes Dean got far enough away before he started breathing hard, hopes he didn’t hear Seth fall and crack and lose it just like they both knew he would. He may be nothing but a stupid whore, just like _he_ said, but at the very least, he hopes this isn’t hurting Dean. Dean deserves so much, so much more and better, never hurt, but Seth – Seth knows exactly what he deserves.

 

The first time they have a fight, Seth looks over at Dean, and Dean can feel everything in that gaze; disappointment, tension, fear – and Seth looking away feels like the first time a fist didn’t come flying towards his face. He looks back, anyway, because as much as he’s tried to keep himself from sullying Seth, he wants nothing more than to stay, nothing more than to move in, be close but just far enough away that they’re both comfortable. He wants to ask if they’re over, if they’re done, but he should know the answer, he’s always known the answer. He’s a stopgap for Seth, something to have, a fun diversion to say he’s been slumming it, and smile, before he heads back to the cleaner side of the fence. People like Seth don’t stay with people like Dean, and once Seth can stop putting himself down, he’ll realise that, he’ll work out that he’s so much brighter and smarter and kinder than Dean deserves. Seth doesn’t know who he is, too muddied in hands and mouths and things he never wanted, but Dean – Dean knows exactly what he’s worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discusses past child abuse and Dean as an adult still living within that abusive situation, although with a suggestion that it's become less so over time.
> 
> Seth's depression and self-esteem issues lead him to victim blame himself for his rape. I in no way condone that thought process, but I know it far, far too well.


	5. it's good to be writing again

Watching Seth and Dean is hard work for Roman, like an emotional whiplash he’s never sure is love or lust or bitter hatred, but on the nights they curve their tongues around bitter words about lovers and anyone who dares get close anymore, Roman tends to find them pressed against a wall somewhere, afterwards. Part of him wants to interfere, wants to echo what Seth had said, once, about showing him more, wants to know if they’re dating, or just fucking, or if there’s any way he can have one or both of them in his arms, just for a little while. Seth has babysat a few more times, and Dean always gives Roman a nod when he sees him, and he likes to fool himself that this means they think about him sometimes, that Seth’s word weren’t a casual, easy flirtation that didn’t mean anything. He likes to think that maybe there’s a space for him within what they have.

Roman knows that things don’t last for him, things don’t settle, and he doesn’t get good things, apart from Joelle, who’s the only bright star in a sky full of darkness. Maybe this job doesn’t pay well, but they turn a blind eye to him taking food from the buffet or dishes the group bring, to the point that people will pack him Tupperware at the end of long sessions of readings, when all the tears are dried and the chairs are being packed away. Nikki and Summer coo over Jojo, making sure she’s holding the boxes, to Roman can’t say no without disappointing his little girl, or if she’s not with him, they make a point to say the treats inside are for her, not for him. It feels less like a handout and more like help, more like giving something actually useful than if Nikki or Brie tried to pay him a little extra. When winter comes, Natalya has a coat, clearly second-hand and well-worn, for Jojo, and it means so much more than a new jacket would. Within the walls of the community centre, Roman almost feels like people understand him.

So when Dean and Seth arrive separately one Wednesday night, and sit at opposite ends of the room, Roman watches helplessly from the door as his little safe haven begins to fall apart. Dean speaks first, taking the steps up to the stage angrily, but without making enough noise to frighten anyone. His words are a storm, dark clouds and angry rain lashing at the crowd, full of comments about making his own decisions, and how being uncared for does not mean becoming careless or carefree. Roman can feel the wince wanting to form on his face, and looks away from the stage, keeping his eyes on the two new guys and three new girls, watching for any sign of trouble. But Dean’s words, just like a summer storm, cannot be ignored, and when he’s done, Roman feels cold to the bone, soaked to the skin, like he’s been scoured of all his old debris, and washed clean by the deluge.

There are a few poets after Dean, but Roman doesn’t hear them, too busy trying to catch Dean’s eye from where he’s propping up the bar and drinking a beer for once, the first time Roman’s seen him with alcohol, or anything that isn’t water. Dean doesn’t look up at him, and eventually, Roman gives up, searching the crowd for more troublemakers. It looks like a quiet night, aside from the fact that two of their best and brightest clearly want to tear each other apart, and because they cannot do it with fists, will do so with barbed words and vicious phrases that could do so much more damage than throwing a punch. That, at least, Roman would be allowed to stop.

When Seth takes the stage, he looks even more nervous than usual, his hair down instead of in his usual bun, and it’s hiding his face from the crowd as he starts to speak. He talks about trust, almost muttering into the mic when he says the word ‘love’, and Roman sees Dean flinch, before he takes another swallow of beer. When Seth does look up, his eyes are burning, sharp and furious and scared, and Roman wants to stop both of them, before they hurt themselves, but he can’t break up a fight that hasn’t really started. He can feel his hands clench into fists without conscious thought, and thinks Seth meets his eyes for a second, before the other man tears his gaze back to his page, his final words about how apologies aren’t a sign of weakness. This time, Roman does wince, and he hears Dean order another beer. He doesn’t know what to do.

At the end of the session, Roman expected it to be Seth coming to him, speaking to him, like they sometimes do when Dean isn’t there, but instead, he finds Dean by his side at the door, glaring an anyone who looks like they might try to start a conversation on their way out. He hasn’t got the words for this, he’s never been a poet, never been good at talking about his feelings, or the way Dean standing next to him makes him feel heartbroken for something that was never his, but which he felt somehow connected to. When Seth walks past, on his way out, Dean’s mouth twists into a sneer, and Seth doesn’t look up, doesn’t say goodnight to Roman, just heads out into the cold night air and vanishes into the darkness. Nikki gives him a nod as she leaves, and then it’s just the two of them.

“I need to check the – “ Roman starts, and then Dean cuts him off with a kiss, pressing him back against the wall gently, giving him room to move away if he needs it. The kiss itself is full of fervour and desperation, need and fire, and Roman can do nothing but give into it, the way Dean is handing over so much of himself in one brief moment. Then he catches up with events, and the taste of stale alcohol on Dean’s breath, and presses the other man’s body a little further away from him. Dean goes without complaint, but when he sees Roman’s face, he can’t be quite so silent.

“I’m not doing this because I’m drunk,” he says, and Roman’s heard it a million times and a million different ways; the defensive tone of the intoxicated trying to convince someone that they’re sober. “I want you.”

“I get it,” Roman says, but doesn’t step any closer. “But you don’t drink, as far as I’ve seen, and you had at least two tonight. That’s enough for me to think you’re gonna regret this.”

“I can regret what I want,” Dean snarls, and Roman shakes his head, turning to the back door, to make sure it’s still locked.

“Not with me,” he says, quietly, but loud enough to carry in the empty room. Both of them can hear the unspoken part of that sentence, that maybe Dean regrets what he’s done with Seth, or maybe he’ll regret the fight later, but Roman’s wise enough not to say it out loud.

“He was being an ass,” Dean mutters, and Roman can’t help it, the side of his mouth quirking up into a smile he hides with a cough as he goes to double lock the side door.

“Didn’t ask,” Roman replies, trying to sound as much like he doesn’t care as possible, even though part of him wants to ask what the fight was about. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“We didn’t fight about you,” Dean says, which makes Roman turn, startled. “We both… he said he’d told you we were interested.”

Roman’s face clearly belies that Seth had told him nothing of the sort, and Dean huffs out a sigh before heading for the front door, Roman trailing behind him, glancing around to check no one left anything behind before he turns the lights out.

“I’m not something you can win,” Roman says, eventually, when they’re both outside in the cold air, Dean blowing on his hands. “You don’t get to hold it over Seth that you kissed me first. I won’t be a part of that.” He locks the door, fumbling with the key for a moment before the sticky lock finally agrees to click twice, indicating that it’s fully locked. When he turns around, he’s alone on the sidewalk. He tells himself he isn’t disappointed.


End file.
